


Transcendence

by Petyrs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Swan Lake
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1715729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petyrs/pseuds/Petyrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>True love's kiss is not always needed to break the spell, when all that is desired is capitulation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transcendence

            _Wings_.

            He had gifted her with wings, the glorious freedom found in taking to the air so far above the petty worries of the world: breeze threading through feathers as a lover would comb auburn locks, untouchable by all but the cool wisps of cloud, trailing down in search of ethereal caress. Grey turned argentate, dun to copper, and blue and orange and purple and yellow all drawn out into a prismatic eruption of a thousand thousand colors, imperceptible when standing upon the dampened shores of ebony waters.

            Yet autonomy only formed the cornerstone of a deceptive prison. Choice it was not that sent her wheeling across the sky, every hunter’s desire, every child’s envy. _Jealousy_ and _avarice_ chained the girl to her lake, donning ivory feathers as dawn’s corona broke horizon distant, shedding them only as aurulence subsided before charging eventide. He visited but rarely, though she was not fool enough to believe her sanctuary went unobserved. Surrounded by glens, capped with a monument to ruins, creeping ivy and strangling weeds proving far mightier than the mortar of man, the glassy haven drew no creatures but those enchanted to its bounds.

            The others were smaller, with feathers more cream than white, a flight less graceful and form more stunted, yet swans all the same. She was their _Queen_. Chains of gold instead of shackles of steel, their mournful regent watched her sister moon’s slow wheel across starry sky in the company of reeds and willows, with only the soft thrum of hidden life to break the silence. In her true form – the one stolen for all hours of daylight – pearl became her skin, locks a flowing copper unnatural amidst the greys and greens and browns of constricting fens. Sansa spoke to none of them, her pain hers and hers alone, though what tide of blue did sweep over companions of equally lacking fortune remained ever _sympathetic_. But for all their woes, such poor girls as the ones attending their autumnal princess never once did suffer the call of he who granted them winged state.

            Every fortnight, without fail, as the moon burst forth in full glory of bleached iridescence and again, when darkened sphere granted the girl but a few moments of humanity before the spell took hold once more, he came to her. Just beyond the water’s reach, mossy stare pressing, burning, _urging_ his prize to turn and grant attention desired. Every two weeks, the same request _: Marry me_. _True love is but a myth, your kiss will never come. Take me as your husband and be free from all of this, from sky and lake and ruin. Only say yes, and I shall place the **world** within your palms_. When naught but stars looked down upon them, he stayed no longer than the time required to make his demands, cloak whispering in hurried departure before downy feathers could even burst forth; on nights of brightest ivory, Baelish’s vigil lingered until the dawn: girl watching her pale-faced master, man watching his flame-haired muse.

            Not once had he touched her, incapable or unwilling to venture but an inch into the icy waters of the lake. Sansa instead lingered ankle-deep, until feet were numbed and it felt as though she hovered above the silty bottom, nothing existing below the watery swish of indigo silk. Both miserable in isolation, neither redeemed in fellowship. _No_ remained her first, her last, her only answer. There _must_ remain a soul, a single, pure, selfless soul whose atoms cried out for hers. Deep between her ribs, the girl knew a partner worthy of her heart must trod the earth – but would he find her, before madness called? The man’s entreaties became no more than whispered breezes, cattails moving in their death rattle as promises and vows and visions all vanished like so much mist over blue-black ripples. _Choose me. Choose your prison, choose your warden. Shed your garish feathers so I might finally teach you how to fly_.

            Did the offer truly stand? Would he inflict such sorcery only to force her into _choosing_ its removal? Was it the decision, made of sound mind yet coerced all the same, that titillated him more than unquestionable ownership, control, dominion? Answers she lacked, never given, never intimated. There was only the man, clad in pitch, clad in coal, clad in sable. Watching. Asking. Leaving, as the girl remained to reascend her limnal throne. An endless cycle of gestures and refusals, power gained and power lost, until the promise of a prince faded into something less than fable or rumor. There was no love of pure heart, there was no deliverance – only the moon, the lake, and feathers white as winter’s first snow.

            But desire – that plainness of human _want_ – could prove just as powerful in its exhibition as a spell ill-intended. Generous bargains would not sate the man Baelish forever, for any might exsanguinate from a thousand tiny pricks to exposed pride. One evening, not even the risk of frigid waters flooding boots and sullying hem of cloak could keep her gaoler bound to sandy shores. The touch upon her elbow, crooked and curled close about Sansa’s waist, _burned_ despite the grazing suggestion of fingertips. Turning – for what else could she do but obey? – the girl was claimed, crushed, kissed in a sudden confluence of flesh and breath. A hard press of mouths devoid of seeking tongue or nipping teeth, possession alone its sole intent. _Mine_. Swan or woman, captive or caged, Sansa Stark _belonged_ to him by force of will alone. She neither struggled nor submitted, static between flexing arms until Petyr softened: _but still he could not let her go_. Muscles lost their tension, lips parted for a warm wash of breath against her own, fingers daring to tangle in the finest silk from which her hair had been spun. The swan was nothing less than beautiful; the _woman_ was divinity made flesh, impossible to surrender. _Love me_ , his tongue begged in gentle slide. _Take me for your own_ , his lungs gasped with shallow breath. _Give up the sky, shed your wings, and exchange your heart for mine_ , his hands demanded as they threatened to bruise.

            _I can’t! I can’t I can’t!_ What of the prince, what of the castle, what of the songs to be written on love’s triumph over wicked sorcery and black temptation? Yet still her mouth opened beneath his, if only to take the barest flicker of tainted offering. He tasted not of the sky, but of the earth, a peaty twang of all that sprung up green from loamy soil. So unlike this Swan Queen who took her breath amongst the clouds and her sustenance from showers of rain – pure, translucent. Against her hip she sensed him, pressing, wanting, yearning; it was not the feel of Baelish, heavy and engorged, that sent the girl stumbling back. It was the thought, fleeting, that her palm was best suited to his length, drifting between the pair even as gasping exhalation propelled her away.

            Untouched, unsated, his lips still curled in silent victory. For ground surrendered became leverage gained, persuasion well rendered. No _prince_ had embraced her so, no valiant boy in dreams spun sugar-sweet had ever enticed such acts as those briefly pondered. There Petyr left her, shivering from the chill of _realization_ , tiny wakes of their embrace still emanating along the pond and through the air. For what Sansa had learned was this: the Swan Queen would not _endure_ her sorcerer’s touch for the hope of a life returned. She would _demand_ it and, in doing so, release them both.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for bellevinu & Petyr x Sansa Week. Read, comment, and enjoy!


End file.
